- Please note that I have taken great liberties with Cheyenne
customs though, as mentioned in the story, the women of the Cheyenne
tribes were kept closely guarded, this is a tribe that ascribes to the
"Two Spirited" belief, and women did in fact wear dresses that went
down to their ankles. The tribal dance, festival, and trade in Virginia are
all inventions of mine.

There may be some grammatical errors that I overlooked; it is
difficult to spot one's own mistakes. Please let me know if there is one that
jumps off the page at you, but don't stone me for splitting an infinitive.

The sound of chirping and heavy footfalls in the
grass woke him, and for a moment he thought he was back in South Carolina. But even so far out West,
there were robins. A quick glance about proved he was not; the hide walls of
the conical hut surrounding him glowed with sunshine from the outside. The
small dwelling was empty, and he lay naked between smooth animal pelts,
permitting himself to wake in stages.

One of five oiled and well-carved
bows was absent; Gat was hunting. He stretched lazily and let the drawings on
the hide walls come into focus as his eyes adjusted to light. They were all
bears, hand-painted in scenes of nature or the hunt. Gat had told him the bear
was his chosen animal once, and when Hazel had asked why he'd chosen it, he'd
laughed.

"It chose me. That is how it's
done." The complex ritual of spirit dreaming had been broken down for him
over the following days, and he began to think that maybe one day he would go
out and seek his own. Gat suspected ahead of time that it would be a deer that
chose him; Hazel had countered with a fox, and Gat had looked thoughtful,
nodding. Hazel was not a deer; he didn't flee from danger, but cleverly out
waited it, taking on only the risks that would pay off later.

He glanced at his clothing, which
lay in a small pile against the edge of the hide wall; it had been mended many
times over, and soon he would have to forgo it entirely. The trousers were
cotton, a hardship when one moved about as much as Gat's people did, following
buffalo. His shirt, linen and once of the highest quality, looked now like an
orphanage hand-me-down. The leather shoes were all that had lasted, though he'd
patched the side of the left one twice to keep it from leaking. His persistence
in donning the clothing daily came from an inability to leave his old life
behind completely; what if some day he had to go back? There were few remnants
of it now, and the sudden freedom both exhilarated and terrified him. Gat's
people were kind, but he was not one of them, and feared that they sensed it.
But just the same, he was hardly one of his own kind
either. His friendship with Gat in South Carolina had led to talk. Talk was
the worst sort of thing that could happen to a man; bankruptcy and slave
revolts drew sympathy, but talk kindled anger and suspicion.

Escape had been easy. It was Gat who
suggested it, shrugging simply at Hazel's aghast expression. "The journey
will be long."

"What makes you think they'll
even want me? I couldn't blame your city if they hated me, because of who I
am." No indeed, not when his country's government pushed West at the cost
of thousands of lives.

"They will accept you because I
am your husband."

Hazel colored
brightly and jerked away, "Don't say
that—what are you implying, that I'm your wife?" He hissed, still quite unused
to Gat's way of seeing their highly unusual relationship. It had been the first
of many such arguments, though over time Hazel had grown certain that the
terminology that he found so insulting came only of an inability to translate Cheyenne into English. Gat used
what words were available to him. English did not provide proper term
expressions for husband and, well, other husband.

"No." Gat was never
frazzled by his little outbursts; he never quarreled
or debated. "You're my husband too."

Hazel had heaved a sigh, pacing the
length of the room and circling it twice before coming to a decision. Gat was
standing beside the wingback chair in the corner in silence, watching him
quarrel inwardly between fight and flight.

"I don't have much of a choice,
do I?"

"You have a very obvious
choice." Gat said. "Stay here, with your people. Or come with me and
go home."

Hazel thought that put it very
succinctly, and moved to the staircase. "Let me pack a carpetbag." He
surrendered, watching the tiniest smile pull at Gat's stoic expression.

"I will find a horse."

That was eleven months ago, and he
had heard nothing from Charleston since. He'd left his
father no letter, but he supposed it would be rather obvious where he'd gone,
and with whom. Gat had come to Charleston with three others of his
tribe to trade. At the news, children and adults both shamelessly appeared on
the edge of town the day of their arrival, expecting war paint and feathers.
The three men arrived in buckskins not unlike those the southern vaqueros wore, and linen shirts. Hazel
remembered this in particular because of the way the fine fabric clung tightly
across Gat's broad shoulders, revealing a strong chest beneath. He had been
almost sixteen before he realized that most other boys his age weren't noticing
the way fabric clung to other men's chests.

The Indians wore boots, not
moccasins, and their hair was neatly combed out and tied back in out-dated but
distinctly European queues. Only Gat wore his folded over
twice near his nape, making it appear shorter. Their faces were
completely naked, of both paint and expression. They had lingered long enough
to trade, flaunt their English abilities, and be chastened by preachers like
Hazel's own father.

One of the three, a tall man with
fierce eyes who called himself Charles—Hazel had later discovered his name was
really Wind Hawk, and he was the most touted sharpshooter in his tribe—endured
ten minutes of Reverend Grosse's fierce lectures before Hazel had interrupted
with his presence and muttered some excuse to usher the man out. He had seen
Charles was near to his breaking point—Hazel knew the expression because he'd
endured the same sort of lectures plenty of times in the past—and apologized.

"I came here to trade, not to hear
his wild stories." Charles spat, and Hazel flushed.

"They're Biblical
parables," he explained, "And I'm sorry. It is my father's bad habit
to overdo it. But if you're here to trade, why were you at my father's
house?" Reverend Philip Grosse lived a rather austere life for a
Protestant, and had little worth dickering over, in Hazel's opinion.

"I went to your post; a Mr.
Salisbury," and there he stumbled over the pronunciation, though Hazel
knew well the small shop owner, "sent me here for fabric."

"Fabric?"
Hazel appeared baffled, and Charles launched into an explanation of why it was
needed in halting English, mentioning that Mr. Salisbury said Mrs. Grosse had
had bolts of it stashed away, and maybe the Reverend was willing to part with
it.

Hazel frowned. "That was my
mother's." It was in the attic now, collecting dust, but still radiating
comfort with the knowledge it was there. He had very few memories of the
fair-haired woman, but one of them was creeping up to the small sewing room
where she would sit embroidering or stitching a skirt. She used to make him
clothing too.

"We will look elsewhere; I'm
sorry." The far deeper tone startled him; another, taller man had
approached so silently Hazel had not heard his boots crunching the gravel of
the street. It was the broad-shouldered man who had arrived two days ago on
horseback, his hair bundled up in the back.

"You could try Denelle's. A seamstress works there, and they should have
extra," Hazel offered, speaking, in essence, to Charles, but keeping his
gaze on Gat.

"I'm sorry. We haven't been
introduced?" Hazel swore he could hear
Charles rolling his eyes, though at the time he hadn't known why, and
grasped Gat's wide hand as it was offered, not at all surprised by his
strength.

"I am Gat." He supposed
the name was invented; it was neither Western nor, as he later found out, Cheyenne.

"When did your mother
die?"

Hazel smiled faintly, shaking his
head, "It was a long time ago. I was a child." No one thought to
inquire anymore.

"I am sorry for your
grief." Hazel supposed it had been in his eyes at the thought of parting
with the last relic of his mother's, and hurriedly tried to erase the
expression.

"Ah, thank you," he
nodded, watching Charles move down the busy street. Gat's eyes stayed politely
on him. Hazel glanced back at the door of his home, and to Gat. "Do you
drink tea?"

"No. But I would like to try
it."

He learned that Gat and his
companions, Charles and David, or Wind Hawk and Running Wolf, were to stay a
month and travel throughout the South Carolinian territory—a state, Hazel had explained—before
returning home.

Hazel asked him where home was, and
found that he was of the people called Cheyenne, in the Kansas territory.

"You made a very long
journey."

"We used to have friends here,
several generations ago. We decided it would be safer and," here he
smiled, "We wanted to see your cities."

"Are they what you
expected?" Hazel wondered if he looked at Charleston in awe or disgust.

"Not at
all." His neutral answer gave no hints, and Hazel spent the
afternoon probing for answers and enjoying the relative silence of the house
while his father was away. He found with some amusement that Gat thought the
city rather dirty and some of the customs so strange he was sure his own people
would not believe them if repeated.

"Women's
dress? I find it fetching." He didn't add that he found well-fitted
trousers and billowing vintage sleeves much more so.

"Maybe."
Gat allowed, "But it's not practical. I saw a woman today get stuck in a
doorway. Her skirts are too wide."

"That's only the fashion."
Hazel chuckled.

"Yes," Gat answered
politely, and then obliged Hazel when asked to describe his own people's dress.
"Our women cover their legs as well, but the dresses are more wieldy. Men wear clothing not unlike yours, though more
durable." Hazel imagined the women must dress quite plainly, but a month
later discovered it was not so; everything from shells to porcupine quills
adorned their clothing in detailed patterns that would take a
seamstress hours to construct. That, he thought, was just as impractical
as anything a Carolinian might don.

"And the feathered war
bonnets?" He inquired, having seen paintings and heard tales. He couldn't
imagine running about with a duck's worth of feathers on his head, but then
again, he didn't really have the height to pull it off.

"Yes. Sometimes."

"Not every day?"

Gat laughed, "How would you
work in that? Of course not. Do you wear your armor every day?"

"Armor?" It seemed Gat, too, had heard stories.
"No one wears armor to war anymore," Hazel
laughed. "Where did you hear that?"

Gat, far from appearing embarrassed,
answered that he had seen a drawing of it in a book. Many travelers
going West stopped in their village to trade, and he
had accepted this book, with scribbling in a foreign writing, for buffalo meat.
One of the images showed a white man in a full body suit of armor.

"People have not worn armor to battle for a long time," Hazel said.
"It's too heavy, and one would require a horse. That is more the stuff of
legends nowadays."

It was Gat's turn to inquire more of
Hazel's history, and he was a more talkative individual than Hazel would have
originally pinned him for. They spent the last of the sun's hours in
discussion, taking turns in their respective investigations until the topic of
livelihoods came about. Gat was a hunter, a warrior when needed, he explained,
as his father had been. "And will you be a priest like your father?"

"My father is not a priest,"
Hazel said quickly, "He's a reverend. A
Protestant."

"I thought all holy men were
priests."

Hazel frowned; how
typical of the Catholics to lie. It was such a pity that they had gotten
to the Natives first. "No. Only Catholic holy men are priests; priests
cannot marry or have children, so my father is not one."

Gat apologized if he had offended
him, and Hazel assured him he had not and that no, he had no intention of
becoming a holy man himself.

"I've had enough schooling that
I'm qualified now to go after my doctorate; I would like to teach, if nothing
else. My father approves of it."

Gat raised an eyebrow and then,
hesitantly, "But that is not what you want."

Hazel shrugged. "I have no room
to complain. Most men in the profession I desire would happily give it up for
my lifestyle." Despite his father's austere way of life, they were quite
comfortable.

"And what is that?"

"I would like to be a jeweler."

Gat asked what a jeweler
did—did he trade in precious stones?

"No, a jeweler
works with watches and makes repairs—jewelry too. I
love the mechanics of it—watches more than baubles. I
spent my childhood pulling them apart to see how they function and then
tweaking the tiny organs until they work properly again. That was when I was
apprenticed in youth to a jeweler who specialized in
watch repair; my father thought it was a good pastime for a boy not in school
in the summer. But it was not a suitable profession."

"Why?"

Hazel did not know how to answer
without sounding crass; despite claiming almost daily that the meek will
inherit the earth, his father refused to allow a son of his to become a
watch-maker. It was too middle-class. "He thinks it is suitable that I
become a professor, or that I follow in his humble footsteps."

Gat remained quiet, knowing better
than to speak against the advice of his host's father. Hazel noted he had
finished the tea long ago and set the delicate china cup aside; his eyes, like
jet, were still focused on Hazel.

"I…wouldn't want to keep you.
Mr. Gat." He smiled and rose quickly, unnerved by his look, though doing
nothing to avert it. "But I would like to speak with you again."

Gat indicated likewise.

"Please, accept my invitation
to lunch tomorrow?" Hazel offered, knowing well that his father would be
locked away in his office writing a sermon.

"I would like that." They
shook hands, and just as Gat had turned the corner in the distance, Hazel heard
the backdoor creak open as his father entered, mumbling beneath his breath.

"Hazel. Where's that blasted
woman?" He was referring of course to their maid, Anna, a red-headed Irish
woman who had fled the prejudiced cities of the north only to become mired in
those of the south.

"I don't know. She might be
ill." Hazel suspected otherwise—he had seen her out with a gentleman twice
that week, and promised with a nod to be silent about it. He hadn't expected
she would be late.

"I've half a mind to be rid of
her."

Hazel would have shot back that he
wouldn't if he didn't want to starve, but said nothing, retiring to his room to
escape the tirade of an oncoming monologue, mentally preparing a list of
questions for Gat at lunch the following day.

It hit him moments before Gat's
arrival that he might not know how to use a fork and knife. He had been told
Indians didn't, and, wary of putting his guest into any sort of embarrassing or
uncomfortable situation, hesitated to open the door when he heard the knock.

"Hello." He saw Gat glance
around as he entered, and assured him hurriedly that his father was upstairs,
and would not come down for anything but an earthquake.

"How's business going?"

Gat said that it was going well,
taking his seat across from Hazel on the delicate, glass-topped table on the sun
porch. His host found that he wielded the silver utensils easily, and relaxed,
opening their conversation after a short preamble for manners' sake, with a
question.

"Will you tell me more about
your city?"

Gat looked surprised; Hazel
suspected that no one here ever asked, but rather expected Gat to be posing the
questions and marveling at their civilization.

"What would you like to
know?"

"Anything.
Tell me about your friends there."

Gat did, mentioning that, contrary
to what Hazel had thought, Wind Hawk and Running Wolf were not his friends, but
members of other tribes, also Cheyenne, who came for the sake of
trade. More, he explained, would be coming in a few weeks. Scouting parties had
been sent ahead.

He had grown up with childhood
friends that continued to be so in manhood; he gave Hazel their names in his
own tongue, and translated carefully. These men had taken no Christian names.
"Two Fields almost came with me, but his father fell ill, and he had to
stay behind to take care of him. His grandfather is the priest—or reverend, I
should say," he corrected himself with a small smile. "Obviously he
cannot be a priest. I met him when his family came to live with us; they come
from a separate sector of our people, and moved after their village was burned
by white settlers." Hazel felt a twinge of remorse, as if it were his
fault, and batted it away, saying the appropriate things. "Two Fields will
be a healer too, one day; he trains hard."

"A spiritual
healer or a physician?" Hazel inquired.

"Both. You make them different
here, but among my people they are one and the same; you cannot heal the body
without affecting the spirit."

Hazel gave a small "hm" to show he was listening, fingers about the tall
transparent glass of iced tea.

"Standing Horse I have known since I was
a child; his mother and mine are sisters, and his children call me uncle."

Hazel inquired politely how many
children he had, and the name of his wife.

"He has two partners; all his
children are with Clear Sky, whom he married second."

"Two wives?" It sounded so
foreign, so Eastern, that Hazel had trouble believing it. He had never heard
that men kept multiple wives out West, and had assumed that was a tradition
that remained only in the harems of Arabia.

"No, two partners." Gat
said calmly, probably used to foreign confusion over his customs. Or maybe,
Hazel hypothesized, he was not one to rile easily. "Clear Sky is his wife;
she has very delicate features, and fairer skin than most. She looks like one
of your women, except she is tall. And then Seven Storms, who is his husband.
He is younger, and manages the household, the money." Gat smiled,
"Standing Horse has never been good with money."

"He has a what?" Hazel sputtered, almost spitting his mouthful of tea
back into the glass. "A husband?A man?" He remembered
to keep his voice down.

Gat was too confident in his English
to second-guess his translation. He laughed, "That is not common here is
it? I have not seen any men with men, or women with other women. But I assumed
you wanted to populate quickly," he jested, and then frowned at the
expression on his host's face. "Have I offended you?" For a brief
moment he panicked, thinking that Gat had read something in his face he hadn't
meant to show, and that this was all a jest intended to mock him. The notion
passed, and he saw nothing but sincerity on Gat's face.

"Well, no," Hazel said carefully, "But I have never heard of
such a thing in my life. Why, two men can't marry!"

"Why
not?"

"Because—well
that doesn't even make sense!"

Now it was Gat's turn to look
confused. Hazel explained in brief, "Such things are taboo here; no two
men, or two women, can marry. I reckon most people here aren't aware that
amongst your people they can, and if I were you, I wouldn't mention it."
He might have said more, but caught himself before he could start mimicking his
father. Who was he to pass judgment? It had been done unto him so many times
that he'd lost his taste for it entirely.

Gat told him he appreciated the
warning. "It's very difficult to know what it is acceptable to discuss
here. I've found weather is always appropriate."

Hazel nodded with a small smile,
"Yes, a safe topic."

Their conversation drifted on, and
Gat remained neatly within the boundaries of propriety, a perfect gentleman
despite his somewhat wild, exotic appearance. Hazel found himself
itching to return to the former topic of discussion, to pry that Pandora's box
open a second time and peer inside. He wouldn't touch, only look, maybe search
for some sort of self-justification that he could never really make use of.
Something about the completely barbaric tradition synced with him, reminding
him of personal experiences in youth that he had locked away to be forgotten.
Now that he suddenly desired to probe a similar topic risked re-opening a
dangerous wound.

Gat was speaking of the daughter of
a hunter-friend of his who had learned English quicker than anyone else in the
tribe, and was quick to teach it to her friends and use it as a code that
baffled and annoyed many of the elders. They had long since finished eating,
and were sitting back in the chairs over a second or third glass of
lemon-filled iced tea.

"But children, I have found,
are the same everywhere."

Hazel agreed it was so, and a short
silence fell upon them. He fancied he could hear the scratch of his father's
quill pen upstairs.

He did not know how to redirect the
conversation; their time ran short, and Gat was too polite to lapse into any
sort of talk that might offend his host. Hazel was blunt.

"I want you to tell me more
about these marriages," He said softly, almost whispering.

"I thought they made you
uncomfortable."

"They don't. They do," He
admitted, "Just tell me."

Gat obliged his curiosity, explaining
that some people, those who were Two-Spirited, as it would translate, might
possess the body of a man, but really the spirit of a woman. Some might switch.
It was their right, if they liked, to wed
appropriately. Two-Spirited women with the bodies of men dressed as women, and
only donned battle apparel in times of war, when they would take care of the
injured. Men trapped within women's bodies might fight, if they liked.

"So you're tellin'
me a man can marry another man if he thinks he's a woman?" Now Hazel was
doing his best not to laugh. "Why would he think that?"

"I don't know. I'm not
Two-Spirited. I am just a male."

Hazel suddenly felt too warm in his
shirt, and shifted uncomfortably in the chair. "What if a man who knows himself to be a man, still wants another one?" He asked
softly.

"Then I think he should ask for
the one he wants."

Philip Grosse's heavy steps on the
stairs ended their conversation, and Hazel realized more time had passed than
he'd been aware of. He made the proper introductions, and seethed later that
evening when his father suggested he use this opportunity to convert the
heathen who seemed so adept with the knife and fork.

Hazel did not ask him to come over
again, but rather met with him several streets down, in the city. Mr. Burringham, the man to whom he had apprenticed in youth,
the owner of the small jeweler's shop, still welcomed
his aid in the back room when he had more than he could handle. At sixty three,
his sight was failing him, and the more detailed work was often left to younger
eyes. Hazel habitually volunteered; he had no need of money, but wanted employment.
It was at his shop, after hours, that Hazel and Gat would meet and dine in the
back room; Mr. Burringham allowed it because he was
an open-minded fellow who had no desire to baptize "heathens" and
because he had known Hazel since youth, and was glad of his help. Burringham had supposed, though Hazel had been too polite
to say it, that the Reverend had made some unappealing remarks in the boy's
friend's presence.

Three weeks passed like this, and
the reverend seemed pleased to know that Hazel was occupying himself
well as he waited for a reply from Yale. In the meantime Hazel became as
well-versed as he could in Gat's culture, picking up a few words here and there
that were not translatable, and memorizing their definitions.

Although their topics of conversation
were often contentious, Gat never ventured to discuss Two-Spirited people or
marriage traditions again. Instead they swapped stories, traditions, and taught
each other phrases of importance and amusement. Mr. Burringham
always closed the shop down at five, and they would spent the rest of the
evening until nine or so in conversation or examining watches and jewelry sent for repair.

On evening, exactly one week before
Gat's departure, he asked to see the inside of a watch that so fascinated Hazel.
It struck him as odd, because Gat couldn't even tell time. Popping the back off
of a gold-plated piece he had repaired earlier that morning, Hazel drew two oil
lamps close and gestured for Gat to step over.

"See that turning? This is the
first wheel, and the mainspring is attached to it right here," He pointed
with the tip of a delicate pointed driver. This is the center
seconds wheel—you can't see from over there." He gestured again, stepping
aside to let Gat peer through the magnifying lens at the tiny rotating wheels.
He held it up a bit, and as Gat leaned forward, a shock of dark hair fell loose
of its tie, spreading atop Hazel's shoulder. The moment seemed to last longer
in Hazel's mind than it must have in reality, but suddenly he was able to feel
the heat pouring off of him, the sweet, wild scent that always clung to his
clothes. Maybe it was a natural aromatic, something on his skin. A delicate
hand moved to brush the long strands of ebony from his shoulder, surprised to
find it was rougher than it looked, and smelled of a sweet
oil.

"Sorry." Gat stepped back,
and Hazel let go, carefully closing the watch and re-attaching the back of it.

"It's detailed work."

"It is," Hazel agreed
quickly, glad for the sudden noise in the room, though it was short lived. He
returned the magnifier and its stand to the corner, letting it scrape the wood
for the sake of sound. "Your hair."

"What?"

"Do you oil it?"

"Yes."

"It smells nice." He
blushed brightly at the stupid remark, and found Gat smiling softly at
him.

"Thank you."

"It's late. I need to go."

Gat nodded his agreement and packed
up their scanty supplies, following Hazel out the side door and waiting
patiently while he locked it.

That night Hazel found himself wondering what Gat might look like with his hair
down, which led to him wondering what he might look like with his hair spread
out over a bare, muscled back, or maybe fanning out across a firm chest,
shining with sweat and bear grease. Hazel indulged the thought until it led to
speculation about just how that chest might feel pressed against his own, flush
with his body, along with points south.

"Oh this has to stop," he
breathed aloud, already in quite a state, able to feel perspiration soaking
through the back of his nightshirt. He wondered if Gat endured the same thing.
He wondered if Gat even wore a
nightshirt.

Not
an appropriate thought…He turned over onto his side, twisting amongst the
too-hot sheets, and struggled into sleep only to be plagued by outlandish
dreams of the wide plains as seen from the back of a horse, arms wrapping about
a sturdy chest as the beast cantered below.

He met with Gat the next evening
over a watch and three broken bracelets, working late to occupy his mind and
only breaking shortly for dinner.

"You're going back soon, aren't
you?" Hazel inquired.

"Yes, five days."

"Is it a long trip?" He
put down the pocket watch and moved to douse his hands in the icy water left
near the door in a small wash bucket.

"It is."

Hazel paused, listening to the
sounds of the dark, shadowed water lap and suck against the sides of its
container. He dried his hands on the sides of his cotton trousers. "When
will you be back?"

"I don't know. There are others
coming. Maybe I won't be."

Hazel winced internally, glancing
off. Gat would go and never come back—why should he, when he had the freedom to
roam where he chose? Who would come back to Charleston? Hazel himself envied it
of him, and found he was angry, suffering the uncertain panic of a caged animal
unable to change its circumstance.

When his eyes fell upon Gat again, he realized the
man was holding something back too. He looked tense with his burden.

"Just say it, Gat."

"Come with me."

"What?"

"Come with me," he
repeated calmly, standing. "You said you've never been West.
Come with me."

"I can't just up and
leave." It sounded more uncertain than he had intended.

"I understand." Gat said
politely, and Hazel shook his head.

"No, I don't think you
do," he growled, hands coming to rest harshly atop the table, making the
small oil lamp shudder; its flame bent double in shock. Gat was looking at him
too calmly. "You can't waltz in here and tempt me like this, offer me some
happy solution, a way out, when you know damned well I couldn't go."

"If you need a way out, it
means you're not happy. You should leave."

"There's a lot I'm not happy
about!" Hazel snapped, unnerved by Gat's calm façade, as if he were
listening to a child. "And you have a damn fine way of highlightin'
it!"

"What else?" Gat looked a
little taken off guard, and Hazel found he liked it.

"I want your freedom! Your ability to come and go as you like. No one limits you.
You have friends that respect you and your family, and your people—my Gods you
don't have any rules!" He strode
across the centre of the room as he spoke, "You can do anything you
please—things I've punished myself for even thinking
of!"

Gat was frowning, the look of
surprise replaced by disapproval. Hazel riled.

"Don't look at me like
that—it's true!"

"I do nothing you're not free
to do."

"Yes you do!" Hazel
yelled, slamming his hand down in frustration atop an empty countertop,
"Your society doesn't regulate you—you can go where you want, choose your
profession as you see fit, love anyone
you desire!"

Hazel knew before he said it that it
was too much. Now he had formed a rift between them that could not be repaired
in five day's time. He found he was trembling slightly, face flushed in
frustration.

"Maybe that's why you should
come with me." Gat said quietly, standing closer now, able to meet his
gaze despite the shadows in the room. "So that you might
do that for yourself."

"I can't." Hazel breathed,
looking up at a serious face with kind, dark eyes. He wanted to sob in
frustration, but pride didn't permit it him. "So much I can't," he
whispered, brushing fingertips over the back of a strong hand that had come to
rest atop the counter.

He moved to turn away, and the
bronzed, callused hand pressed down atop his, holding him fast to the stone-topped
surface; Gat was closer now, too close. Hazel could smell the oil he used on
his hair and the faint, musky odor that came from him
naturally. The edges of his shirt and coat brushed Hazel's own, and a free arm,
strong but yielding, drew him nearer.

Gat never pushed. Hazel had bridged
the gap. Surging upward in a moment of thoughtlessness that had, ironically,
been the subject of hours' worth of contemplation, he caught Gat in a rough,
unschooled kiss that lacked nothing in zeal. The hand pinning his to the
counter rose quickly to join its mate about his waist, sliding slowly up his
back as he adjusted the tilt of his head to accommodate Hazel's haste.

They fumbled clumsily for a moment;
Hazel heard a stool topple over when he took a step backwards, but didn't stop.
A wall nudged his back soon enough, and he drew Gat
down unto him, parting his lips in breathless welcome for a slick, versatile
muscle. Gat tasted like honey and earth, and he heard himself moan as if from a
distance. Hazel let his hands rake down a strong back and slip up beneath Gat's
outer coat to clutch at the firm muscle there. Coals that had been infrequently
ignited in the past suddenly flared violently to life in his loins, igniting a
desire formerly foreign and forbidden to him.

Gat drew back to nuzzle his neck
gently, and Hazel felt firm, damp lips ghosting across the sensitive skin
there. He seemed about to speak, and the blonde shook his head, drawing him
back with a little gasp. "Don't let me think."

They cleaved to one another in a frenzy, kissing and grasping at muscle, angles and curves.
Hazel heard his own fluttering groans with shame, but drowned the sensation
with the scorching heat pressing over him. He knew what he wanted, but not
quite how to get at it.

"Gat--" It came out almost
incoherently, his thought not only unfinished but unstated
entirely. Gat understood and moved quickly to unfasten their belts and press
himself close, producing a deep tenor sound of pleasure at the contact. Hazel
supposed he whimpered, but never recalled it.

He let Gat grasp him beneath his
thighs, arms slipping about his neck for balance. His breath came hard and
fast, echoing faintly in the small room. It hurt, being had up against the
wall, but there was a feeling of release and revolt that far outweighed the
need for pleasure. But he had felt that too, gasping wordlessly at the powerful
motion of Gat's hips, the sensation of warm kisses being pressed over his cheek
and temple, in his hair. He thought he heard his name before everything
culminated into a single point of pleasure-pain and far too much energy for his
body to retain. He knew he must have cried out, but was breathless by the time
he felt Gat's own heat surging through him, over the surface of his skin, it
seemed.

He stood shakily against the wall,
letting the stronger of the two kiss him softly and inquire about his state. He
had enough dignity left to dress.

"I need to go," he
repeated in a hoarse tone, grasping the coat he had worn.

"Hazel."

"I'll need to speak with you. Later. Please come to my home tomorrow." He promised, too dizzy to specify more. Gat must have found
the key on the table and locked up. Hazel barely made it to his bed before
collapsing, and woke with a fearsome pain the next morning.

By the time Gat arrived that
afternoon, he had had time to think. Maybe too much.
What had he done? That question hadn't been answered yet, though he knew right
away no one must ever become aware of it.

The good reverend Grosse always
lingered late after services to bask in the appreciative glow of his
parishioners, and that aside, he had taken to frequenting a local Christian
charity and gracing them with his support and endorsement. He never came home
before two, and Anna, when she did show up, was never due before four. That he
had asked Gat to come by the very next day came of necessity rather than
planning. He had been fortunate.

Opening the door, he was surprised
to find Gat looking guilty, almost sad.

"Come in." He blushed,
closing the door with a click behind his guest. He offered politely to take his
coat and then, as protocol demanded, tea. Gat refused, and the sudden silence
was offsetting.

"Why are you looking at me like
that?" Hazel asked quickly. "Like you're guilty.
I thought you said your people permitted this?" Not as though that excuses an outsider's sin, he thought to himself
in wry agony.

"Because
you're not happy. You were so insistent—but I should have known better.
I was hoping you would change your mind, find it pleasing." That he got
carried away by desire too was implied.

Hazel thought that was an almost
stupidly simple answer, but reminded himself that Gat's people had few rules,
and perhaps were used simply to doing as they liked, appeasing themselves.

"It was! And that is just the
problem," he ran a hand through his hair, willing his nerves to smooth
themselves out. "I've collapsed under temptation before, but this..."

Gat confessed he did not understand.
"You've done nothing wrong. I know it is taboo, but I still don't know
why. If you think so poorly of this, then I will leave you. I hope you think
well enough of me to know I would not speak of it."

Hazel frowned, shaking his head.
"I know that." He felt instantly guilty for involving Gat in his own
personal conflict with morality. The heat in his loins hadn't been the only
aching pest quenched last night. He found that the hovering loneliness that had
so long plagued him was significantly less noticeable, though the threat of
Gat's departure loomed in the near future.

"You know why I did it. Why did
you?"

"Because I wanted it too, and I
thought it would make you happy."

"You want to make me
happy?" Hazel echoed back and noted that Gat barely managed to suppress a
roll of his eyes.

"There is a tribe very near the
Cheyenne that, upon receiving an
offer or gift, feel it necessary to refuse three times before accepting, for
the sake of good manners. I feel as though this is the same."

Hazel understood Gat's inability to
fathom the horrible guilt thriving inside of him, and wondered what it would be
like to live in such a state of understanding.

"I liked you," Gat said
quietly, "and now I care for you. Please tell me what you wish. I have no
desire to cause you pain, but nor do I wish to inflict it upon myself. To stay and
know you would not have me does that; ask me to leave if you don't want
this."

Hazel frowned again, thinking how
different everything looked in the light of day. The shadow-cloaked tryst of
the night before suddenly didn't seem so daunting a sin, though to rid himself fully of such a thought would take years. But Gat
cared for him; he was too direct and honest an individual to gain by lying. No
one had cared for him since his mother's death.

"No. Please, stay. I want you
to stay."

A flicker of a smile passed over his
lips.

"Come with me." He led him
up the staircase, listening to the stairs creak softly beneath their feet. The
third room off the hall was his, large enough for a bed, a desk, and a dresser,
all made of maple. Windows opened onto the side yard and a small kitchen garden
that had been left untended by Anna for over a month. Weeds sprang up and
blossomed in conquest over tomatoes and spinach. Hazel thought they looked
pretty there. They were the only flowers that bloomed.

"This is the strangest thing
I've seen on my trip." Gat confessed, looking to the bed. "The inn
where we stay also has them. I was told everyone did."

"A bed?
Yes. They're comfortable."

Gat grunted noncommittally, and
Hazel laughed. "Maybe something to get used to," he conceded,
unfastening the top buttons of his shirt rather shyly. "Sometimes it's
where people make--" He caught himself, uncertain, and swallowed hard.
"Where they…"

"Sleep together," Gat
supplied, removing his own shirt. The windows had not been covered by curtains
in midday, and a ray of sunlight was shaken from the
leaves overhead through the window, falling in dappled speckles across Gat's
dark skin.

"Yes." They disrobed, and
Hazel drew him close and led him to the bed, settling comfortably atop the rope
mattress and beneath Gat. He slid his thighs apart, arching into the sensation
of bare skin brushing; the familiar heat eagerly rekindled, spreading rapidly
through his veins to set every nerve on fire. The sensation of the smooth white
sheets along his back and Gat's warm, hard body brushing his chest and groin
was an ecstasy. His breath came faster and he tangled his hands in Gat's hair,
kissing him with fervor.

"Don't let me think." It
came out as barely a murmur; at first he wasn't sure Gat heard it at all.

"Hazel," he breathed his
name, parting from the kiss and stilling their frenzied movements. "I want you to think."

He acquiesced, letting Gat lead them
this time, rocking softly as if they were on a boat, keeping up with the lazy
lapping of waves. This time the pain was less, and near the end something
white-hot and wonderful burst through him when Gat changed his angle. His
spread his thighs farther and cried out, clinging to Gat as their coupling
cadenced.

Hazel lay in Gat's embrace a long
time, hearing the birds chattering just outside the window and the easy rise
and fall of their breaths.

"Did you think?" Gat murmured, his chest vibrating as he spoke.

"Yes."

"And?"

"Mmn." Hazel stretched languidly, kissing him. "It's
going to take time. A lot of time. And I will continue
to feel guilty." Especially in the dark, he added silently to himself.
"But I want to do this again."

They lay together and dozed, waking
almost simultaneously at the sound of voices in the streets below. Hazel
surmised it was almost two, and said so with regret.

Gat kissed him and rose, dressing
carefully as Hazel watched with unveiled appreciation made innocent by obvious
timidity. He was almost to the front door before Hazel worked up the courage to
blurt out his question. "Will you come tomorrow?"

Gat smiled.

They continued that way for two
days, and Gat made accommodations when he found Hazel was too much in pain to
go about things the conventional way. Afterwards they would lie together and
speak in hushed voices, as though they weren't alone in the house. It was on
the second day, two days before his departure—that was not spoken of—that Gat
recounted the tale of how he'd received his name.

"I did want to ask about that.
It isn't your real name is it?"

"It is a nickname that serves
me well here, where it's pronounceable. My real name," he spoke then in
his native tongue, and translated, "is Running Bear."

The name made him smile. "It
suits you. How'd you come by it?" He knew enough to know that within many
tribes, names were changed as individuals developed.

"Some of my people gain their
names by personality traits, others by experiences. The bear is my animal; I
say 'running' because I am hunter."

"Why'd you pick the bear though?"
Gat was always considerate enough to leave pauses for his questions.

Gat laughed, and the sound was so
foreign and pleasing Hazel found himself holding his
breath to absorb it. "I didn't choose it; it chose me. That's how it's done."

Hazel made a soft "oh"
sound and quieted.

"I am a hunter because I enjoy
it; I made my first bow as a youth. If you were there," he hinted,
"You might do as you like as well."

Hazel let the insinuation pass,
asking instead how he came to acquire his skill.

"Many hours
of practice. A bow is hard to bend if you don't make it yourself; it
needs to fit your size and strength, the endurance of your arms."

Hazel could imagine Gat on the
plains, strong thighs clamped about a horse, never needing a saddle, and wielding
a well oiled bow to shoot at game in the far distance. It wasn't hard to
picture himself nearby.

"What do you hunt?"

"Deer and
smaller game. The skin of a deer is valuable, and not just to your
people. It makes a good cloak."

"And buffalo?"

"Buffalo cannot be killed with an
arrow. Men use guns for them." Hazel deduced that Gat didn't quite
approve.

They lapsed into comfortable
silence, and Hazel slid his hand across a wide chest, tracing fine white scars
with his fingertips, and then again with his mouth. Gat stroked his hair,
twirling the fine silk curls about the length of his finger.

"You have much softer
hair."

Hazel "hmed"
in agreement, cheek coming to rest near his shoulder. "And you have a much
stronger body."

Gat gave him a pointed look, and
Hazel laughed, pressing close. "I take it you've done this before."

"Hn."

"Well you must have," he
prodded his lover gently. "I had no idea it could be done…well…facing one
another."

Gat smiled faintly, "How
else?"

"Did you have another lover, at
one point?"

"You mean a husband? No."
Gat shook his head.

"Why
not?" Hazel couldn't imagine he didn't have offers, in a society
that permitted such a thing. He was handsome to an Easterner, and must surely
be so amongst his own. Technique was surely not the issue.

"I haven't wanted to have
one."

"Does this mean you're waitin' for just the right person?" Hazel asked with a
smirk, "to live happily ever after?" He realized a moment after that
Gat would not understand the reference.

"Yes." Gat said simply,
not sure why Hazel looked at him that way. "Isn't it important to you to
find someone you love?"

"That's a mighty loaded word.
And I never suspected I would find anyone t'marry
that I love in any way other than a sister."

Gat nodded with a small frown,
slipping an arm about his waist for a quick kiss before he had to leave.
"Tomorrow is the last day I stay here."

"You will visit me?" Hazel
asked softly, receiving a nod in return, and a lingering embrace. He kept him
in their bed until the last possible moment, lying back in the warm place he
had vacated after he'd gone.

The next day they made love in
Hazel's bed again, but because the day drew on faster than they would have
liked, cut their conversation short by three. Hazel followed him down the hall
in a state of half-dress, his shirt open, belt still undone.

"I'll meet you before y'leave," he promised, arms slipping about his neck in
the longest goodbye kiss he had heard of. Gat's warm hand slid down his back,
stroking the length of his spine until they both broke for air, smiling almost
shyly to one another.

He heard Gat's heavy steps on the
stairs and watched from overhead until he heard the front door click shut, when
he turned down the narrow corridor to his bedroom. The creaking of another
door, much closer this time, startled him. He looked up to find Anna peering
out at him beneath a frizz of red hair, her blue dress rumpled from sleeping.
He barely choked out her name in surprise, face flushing.

"When did you get back?"
She never arrived before four.

"I didn't leave," she said
carefully, still staring, wide-eyed at him. Hazel drew his shirt closed quickly
and was torn between running behind the nearest door and demanding to know what
she had heard.

"I was here…since before noon. Sick," She added,
which accounted for her frazzled appearance. Or partly.

Hazel managed a quiet
"oh," and found himself unable to meet her
eyes; he could feel the hot glare from where he stood. She shuffled her feet,
still half-hidden behind the door, though he supposed it was more out of fear
of what he might do to her than embarrassment over her illness.

"I—I thought you had a
woman." She stammered, and Hazel realized she would only have heard him;
Gat was quiet by nature, even in bed. Perhaps she supposed he had insisted the
woman be so for discretion's sake.

"It is not your affair,"
Hazel said with more dignity and self-assurance than he felt, wiping the guilty
expression from his face with force of will. Before he had entered his own
room, he heard her door close, and the rustle of her skirts atop the floor. His
knowing her secret wouldn't balance out. Her secret was an embarrassment, but
she was a servant. It was not unheard of. His secret was illegal.

It was then that Hazel knew he would
leave.

He didn't know where he would go.
The thought that he might run off with the Indians was a barren one; he would
never survive; he would have to go somewhere civilized. It was that evening,
when Gat and his companions were preparing to depart, that Hazel met him in the
barn to bid him goodbye. They had relative privacy, and he risked a kiss, face
flushing hotly at the danger of their situation. It was when Gat convinced him
to go, and one of the first things he thought of every morning when he awoke
within the conical tent painted with bear drawings.

He'd made it clear that he would not
pull him away by force or plea, and Hazel realized he would have to take the
plunge for himself. It hadn't been as terrifying as he'd thought, and riding
across the country to the Kansas territory had been
liberating. He'd packed no more than he needed: sparse clothing, provisions, a
pair of much-treasured cufflinks, and a hat to ward off the sun. He'd removed
several of his mother's large bolts of muslin and dyed cotton to give to the
traders, saving a scrap, a handkerchief, for himself.

Gat had planned on purchasing
horses, and he gave Hazel charge of one to ride back. After the fourth day of
travel, Hazel ceased to count, no longer afraid he would be pursued. Who would
come after him? His father could hardly ride, and wouldn't bother doing so for
a punishment he thought would be better inflicted by the Cheyenne anyway.

Often the passing scenery of the
open countryside lulled him to sleep or kept him later in bed than he should
linger. Sometimes it occupied him while he worked, stringing bows or stripping
hides. Despite his initial curiosity over beadwork, he'd left it alone when Gat
explained that it was women's work. Hazel had enough of those jokes to deal
with as it was, though none of them were cruel in intention.

"Hazel." He jerked from
his reverie.

The tent flap slid open, and Hazel
reached for the kidskin pants he had borrowed but never worn, deciding that to
patch up his remaining clothing would be useless. "Yes?"

"The hunting party is leaving
to cross the river; do you wish to come?" Gat was considerate enough to
ask this often, although Hazel almost always declined. His aim with an arrow,
when he could wield it properly, was poor. Guns were not used when the bow
sufficed, so he lingered back with the others. He was not the only man to do
so; many who kept small gardens or earned their living by another trade ignored
the hunters' departure as well. He had recently apprenticed himself to a
potter—it was a masculine enough trade, and besides, he enjoyed it—who was
teaching him how to work with the clumpy river clay.

"No." He smiled,
"You're leaving right this minute?"

"Very
shortly." He ducked all the way into the room to gather up several
weapons and a well-oiled bow. Hazel was familiar with the procedure,
and dressed quickly, following Gat out. He kissed him for luck, and Standing
Horse snickered, claiming his count for the past three hunts had been far
higher, and he supposed Gat's mind was elsewhere.

Gat raised his brows at them and
tossed Hazel a small smile. "I remember when you were too shy to do
that."

Hazel huffed indignantly and shooed
him off, telling him to keep his mind on the hunt. But Gat had been correct; it
was indeed not that long ago that he'd shied away from almost any mention of
their relationship in public. Although he knew it was no hanging offense—or any sort of offense,
really—amongst the Cheyenne, old habits die hard. A
month or two could not undo twenty one years of socialization.

He remembered his second week there
happened to be a great occasion, a bonfire ceremony to ring in the summer
season. Some of the warriors and hunters were painted and feathered, and they
danced in a strangely elegant pattern about the flames. Gat remained seated,
and Hazel sensed he did so for his sake, not wanting to leave him alone just
yet. He'd picked up a few key phrases, greetings, thank yous
and apologies, but still spoke virtually none of Gat's language. Only a few of
the village spoke English, so he was forced to learn quickly, granted a
reprieve only at night, when Gat would return with him in their tipi.

He was still not wholly comfortable
with public displays of affection, but had made great progress between then and
the present time. When a few days had passed, Gat introduced his husband—there
was a more accurate Cheyenne word for it that did not
translate—to Standing Horse, who clasped him on the shoulder in congratulations
and insisted that he dine with them. He was gracious and very friendly,
communicating mostly by signs; he preferred that to going through Gat as
translator, and had a bit of English to match Hazel's smattering of Cheyenne. Between the two of them,
they made do. Aside from sitting on the floor, rather than chairs, and eating without
utensils, Hazel found the cultures remarkably similar. The Cheyenne women and their virtue
were guarded very carefully, and they wore gowns that fell to their ankles and
generally deferred to the men. Manners, too, seemed much the same, and children,
Hazel found, were the same everywhere.

His first cultural shock came from
Standing Horse over dinner; Gat had risen to leave the wide hut for a time when
Standing Horse said in a mixture of English, Cheyenne, and sign, that he had
never seen Gat so content, and was glad that Hazel had decided to come.

"It is good," He nodded,
passing an earthenware cup across the fire. "Good that you come, for
him."

Hazel smiled, "I'm glad he is
happy now."

"And you?" Hazel was
baffled for a moment, but Standing Horse pointed at him again. "You? Happy?"

The blond nodded politely; it was
too new for him to decide yet whether he was happy, but he felt safe, and that
was valuable all in itself.

Standing Horse grinned, "Gat
makes you happy?" Again Hazel nodded,
a politely schooled expression on his face, which confused Standing Horse, who
felt the need to re-phrase the question with the addition of a universally
unmistakable gesture, with a glance at the bedding in the corner. "He
makes you happy?"

It occurred to Hazel only much
later, after having excused himself, blushing furiously, that Standing Horse
probably hadn't known the word for satisfied or content. He couldn't fairly
blame him, given that Hazel's own Cheyenne vocabulary consisted of
fewer than fifty words.

Gat had explained later that it was
just Standing Horse being Standing Horse; he hadn't meant offense,
but a jest. That sort of humor, too, it appeared, was
cross-cultural. Hazel promised he didn't take it as an affront, and insisted
Gat communicate this—in case he could not—to his friend.

"Hazel." Her voice snapped him out of
reverie, and he gave the clay beneath his hands time to rest atop the earth.
The hunters had long since departed, and Singing Bird approached, trotting
barefoot despite her mother's warnings. She was barely seventeen, and had been
one of the first to accept Hazel's presence; her mother let her spend time with
him alone after she'd discovered he was Gat's partner, though secretly Hazel
supposed it had more to do with his being fair-skinned. Many of the Cheyenne women seemed to think
white men were dangerously near to impotent, and weaker than their females. He
hoped they never had occasion to learn otherwise.

"You didn't go with Running Bear today?" Hazel
was pleased to have understood her with ease; after almost a year, he was
nearly fluent, and no longer required a translator.

"No. I rarely go."

"I noticed." She sank down with a heavy
basket of roots and glanced at his pot. "It's good. I can't work with that
mud."

"Six Horns insisted I work with it,"
Hazel passed a glance down the narrow line of the stream to where the old man
sat humming and poking at clay himself.

"I admire your patience; he is a very
difficult man to work with. His grandson is my brother in law, and they share
the same traits."

Hazel nodded, and this time turned his head
upstream where firewood was being felled. It would be his shift in what
amounted to an hour, just as the sun began to decline. He and a few other men
rotated; the elderly and very young were the only ones exempt. He was glad of
this, as he felt sometimes that working with clay, something very few men did
there, diminished his standing. Not that the color of
his skin didn't do that to some extent.

"It is almost the same season it was when you
first came here with Running Bear. I remember because it was near to the time
of the Summer Festival."

"I reckon it is."

"I saw you kiss him today, before he
left."

Hazel colored,
"What of it?"

"I think it's funny. When you first
came, remember, you would not?" She was trying not to laugh at him,
because he had been offended months before by it. "He kissed you in front
of his friends, and you looked as if you'd been shot!"

Hazel was relieved he had the luxury
to chuckle at the memory now.

"You should be proud! Running
Bear is the best hunter," She said it with a shy smile. "And he's
handsome. I suppose when the next summer moon comes out, you will let him
participate in the dances this time?"

"I didn't tell him he couldn't!"
Hazel protested. "I'm not in charge of him."

"Hm." She looked at him as if she didn't
believe, but nodded anyway, fingering the fringe of her black plaited braid.

"I'm not," He insisted,
rising because two of the young men were beckoning him to his turn at felling
oak.

"In every marriage, someone
carries the reigns. I know. In mine, my mother does. In my brother's, he does.
I think you do; Running Bear would do anything for you."

"I don't control him,"
Hazel maintained calmly, letting her trail along after him as he jerked an axe
up and out of an emptied stump. "He does as he pleases."

"And what pleases him is to
please you, I think." She didn't linger long after, but Hazel couldn't
help but toy with the thought in his mind, investigating it. That made no sense
whatsoever; he and Gat were individuals, neither had any sort of control over
the other. What a preposterous notion.

When Gat returned that evening,
successful, he said nothing of Singing Bird's thoughts, but congratulated him
in front of Standing Deer, who shook his fist in mock rage.

"Next
time!"

Preparations for the summer festival
and the great dance Hazel had witnessed the year before began the following
week, and Hazel asked Gat if he planned to join in.

"Will you?"

"Me? I would look foolish. It's
not my place."

"Why
not?"

"Because I don't know the
steps, and I am content to watch." Hazel promised, running a long dagger
across a whetstone with quick, easy strokes. It sparked on occasion.

"So am I," Gat promised,
but Hazel frowned.

"Now are yadoin' that just because of me?" He reverted to
English in frustration, and Gat gave him a curious look.

"I don't want you to be
uncomfortable."

"I've been here long enough
that I'm not uncomfortable," he promised carefully, "and I have seen
the dance before. I would really like t'see you do
it."

The festival was greater than he
remembered, and the dance came after the feasting, the climax of the evening.
The fire blossomed from a smoky bud into multiple layers of yellow petals,
dripping with heat. A circle of spectators was formed around the perimeter, and
the dancers moved between it and the flames.

Hazel watched closely, mesmerized a
bit by the shadows dancing across dark skin and sharp weapons worn for ceremony
rather than use. The sight of Gat in such a state of undress—and in front of
others!—sent a small tremor of jealousy through him, but he repressed it. Generally
he wore buckskin pants and what whites called a prairie blouse, but that night
he wore nothing but a convenient, and thankfully long, loincloth. The other
warriors and hunters were dressed in a similar way, painted handsomely for the
ritual.

They kept up with the drumbeats and
then outpaced them, leaping in neat, elegant lines and landing with strength.
Hazel took in the entirety of the rite first, and then let his gaze focus on
his lover, able to see sweat from the fire's heat beading in the small of his
back and slicking his chest. His long feet were bare, and hardly touched the
ground as they moved; Hazel thought he was far more agile than the rest, but it
was hard to judge without looking.

It lasted longer than he had
remembered, almost thirty minutes, by his internal clock. Somewhere in the
middle the bundle of dark hair at the back of Gat's hair fell
loose, spraying ebony over his shoulders and neck. Hazel felt a pull in his
stomach and leaned a bit closer.

At the end, children ran up to the fire
to gather burning sticks and run with them; parents chased them down or sent
older siblings to do so. Old men began to tell tales to the well-behaved young
ones, and old women sat nearby to correct them and keep them from falling
asleep. Lovers snuck off together, and young women were marched back into their
tipis by watchful fathers. Hazel found himself waiting in a puddle of shadows near the edge of the
great circle for Gat.

He was breathing hard when he approached, muscles tense and hardened by such strenuous
activity. Greeting him, he swept his hair back up to take advantage of the
breeze.

"It was very beautiful, Running
Bear." He enunciated carefully, because his mind was thinking in English
again.

"Thank you. Maybe next year you
will dance?"

"Maybe," Hazel allowed,
brushing his arm gently with the back of his hand. "You look handsome like
that," he breathed, a flush of heat staining his insides.

Gat's mouth pulled into a knowing
half smile, and he slid an arm about Hazel's waist, capturing his mouth in a
firm kiss. "It's a dance for the sake of the prosperity of virility of
summer," he explained. "It makes me want to take you to bed."

They left the thinning crowd for
their tipi, and Hazel had hardly unrolled the heavy hide flap before he was
pinned beneath slick, hot muscle and being disrobed in haste.

The first time was frenzied, full of
bites and harsh gasps and quick, jerking motions that might have exhausted them
on any other night. After it came slower, the long pull of pleasure drawing
Hazel's breath out so that not even a low moan might
escape. He felt strong bronzed thighs pushing up against the backs of his own
and knowing hands, hands that had touched every inch of him, kindling an
increasingly familiar and guiltless pleasure. Near the end, Hazel found his
voice and cried out in appreciation, listening to low, heady moans as Gat
neared completion and twitched noticeably between his thighs.

They fanned out over the blankets,
heat rising up and off of them like smoke. Hazel turned quickly onto his side
to rest his cheek against his lover's shoulder, fingers slipping between his
with a soft "Oh."

Gat smiled, asking in English,
"A good 'oh'?""A very good oh,"
Hazel agreed breathlessly, taking his time with their kiss.

"Are you happy here?" Gat
asked when they parted, arms still slung about his waist; the question took
Hazel off guard. He hadn't thought it needed to be spoken. It had been a year,
and he'd had time to adjust, to know the territory and to know himself. He
answered without hesitance.

"Yes."

He awoke the next morning alone,
their bedding cool from disuse. Rising, he donned the kidskin pants and stuffed
his feet into the remnants of his leather boots, the last scrap of eastern
civilization he carried, save for his accent. Stepping out, he endured grins
from Standing Horse and three others, who suggested that, judging by the noise
from last night, he might need more rest.

"I should be asking that of
you," Gat appeared with a new bow in hand, roughly hewn and in need of
oiling and a proper string. "Your wife railed at you for almost the entire
night; are you fit to hunt?"

They departed, and Hazel watched
them vanish down the side of a knoll before turning to the tipi. Propped up
against it sat the newly fashioned bow Gat had returned from the central camp
with. Picking it up from the ground and testing its weight, Hazel took it onto
his lap as he sank into the grass, still flecked with early morning dew.
Drawing out a freshly-whetted knife, he tilted the bow onto its side and began
to carve a line of bears into the side.